


Red; Such a Tragic Red

by Owl_Regiment



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Real World, Doctor!Cas, Established Relationship, M/M, Soldier!Dean, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 19:01:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owl_Regiment/pseuds/Owl_Regiment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Each morning when I open my eyes I say to myself: I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today. I can choose which it shall be."</i><br/>- Groucho Marx</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red; Such a Tragic Red

**Author's Note:**

> First submission to AO3! It's a serious text; so no sex sorry guys.  
> Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own.  
> *sorry for the confusion; Dean is always referred to as "the soldier"*

Castiel stood at the foot of Mr. Singer’s bed for the umpteenth time this morning, pretending to read his patient’s chart whilst really straining to hear the conversation behind him. Mr. Singer was complaining about a pain near his kidneys. But the x-rays showed nothing, there was no liquid, no blood, no obstructions. Mr. Singer was fine. He’d been fine since the surgery three weeks ago. Better even. But he kept complaining about a pain near his kidneys. Castiel said it was due to the surgery, just an after aching affect. He was going to be fine. He needed to stop. He was fine. 

Conversation lulled behind him. The two nurses were called away, taking their story with them. Cas tried to scribble his pen into working. He pushed his pen harder than he meant to; red ink bled into the center of his paper. Red, so red; how had he never noticed how completely red this pen was? So red it was alarming. Mr. Singer complained about a pain near his kidneys. Castiel told Mr. Singer that he was fine. He was and would continue to be fine. There was nothing wrong with him. The x-rays had shown nothing. He needed to stop. He was fine. Castiel excused himself. He rubbed his cleanly shaven chin in annoyance. 

The walk down the hallway was too long. The hallway in general was too long. Life was too long. He saw the two nurses that had been behind him before. They were still talking to one another, eyes glittering with laughter. He would wonder what they were talking about, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. A woman with dark curly hair approached him quickly. Her name was Lily, like on the water; he always told himself. She handed him a stack of papers, then smiled with her teeth. Castiel offered a closed smile back; a crinkle around his eyes. Lily turned and walked away. She had a yellow bow in her hair, yellow like the rising new sun. Yellow like a starting new day. 

At lunch, an intern approached Castiel. He told him about his classes in college. Castiel’s glasses dug into his brow as his facial expressions changed to match the story’s tone. When the intern left, Castiel had tears in his eyes from laughing and the remnants of a turkey sandwich on his plate.

The rest of the day passed by at an agonizingly slow pace. Nothing new happened, no surgeries, no injuries. Mr. Singer complained about a pain near his kidneys. Castiel went through paper work in his office. An intern came in and asked for his signature. The pen was red; the pen was so red. How had he never noticed how unquestionably red this pen was? He decided he was puzzled by the pen. 

He finally went home to his apartment. He checked his mailbox; nothing but bills and a couple of advertisements. He had wine and pasta for dinner. His favorite television show blared in the background. Castiel sat hunched over the morning newspaper; a girl had lost her dog that was later found in a barn. How lovely. The soldier’s brother, Sam, called him right before bed, asked him about his week. He smiled and talked for an hour. Afterwards he left to go to bed; he showered for five minutes and brushed his teeth for two. He changed into pajama bottoms and a heavy sweatshirt. 

Before he went to bed, Castiel adjusted the photo of his lover, the soldier, so it was facing him as he slept; the one where the soldier’s arms are tightly wrapped around Castiel’s smaller frame. It was a rare occasion that they were smiling together. He smiled brightly at the memory. He loved the picture. He missed the man in the picture. 

Castiel decided to sleep on his stomach. He slept under the sheet and comforter; the night was freezing. Castiel counted to four; then found himself asleep.

_Red, red; such a puzzling red._  
\- - 

Castiel stood at the foot of Mr. Singer’s bed for the seventh time this morning, checking his patient’s lungs whilst asking for an oxygen mask. Mr. Singer was too out of breath to be complaining about a pain near his kidneys. But the x-rays still showed nothing, there was no liquid, no blood, no obstructions. Mr. Singer should be fine. He should have been fine since the surgery three weeks and one day ago. Better even. But now he couldn’t breathe because of a pain near his kidneys. Castiel assured it was due to the surgery, just the stiches fading away. He was going to be fine. Why wasn’t he fine? He should be fine.

The oxygen mask began flowing. Castiel decided to give Mr. Singer a respiration inhaler. Cas scribbled his pen into working. He made sure not to push his pen harder than he meant to; he didn’t want the red ink to bleed into the center of his paper. Red, so red; how had he never noticed how annoyingly red this pen was? So red it was distorted; it seemed worse today. Mr. Singer breathed through the oxygen mask. Castiel told Mr. Singer that he was going to be fine. He was and would be fine. There should be nothing wrong with him. The x-rays had still shown nothing. Why wasn’t he fine then? He should be fine. Castiel excused himself. He rubbed a hand through his short hair in concern. 

The walk down the hallway was long enough. The hallway in general was long enough. Life was long enough. He saw the two nurses that had been behind him a day before. They were still talking to one another; eyes narrowed as they observed a chart. He wondered what they were looking at, and not knowing left him a tad annoyed. A woman with dark curly hair approached him quickly. Her name was Lily, like a type of flower; did he always tell himself that? She handed him a stack of papers, then smiled without her teeth. Castiel offered a closed smile back; although it could not meet his eyes. Lily turned and walked away. She had a gray bow in her hair, gray like a storm cloud. Gray like an impending disaster. 

At lunch, a nurse approached Castiel. She told him about his patients in the ward. Castiel’s glasses dug into his brow constantly as his facial expression matched the serious tone. When the nurse left, Castiel had water in his eyes from prolonged amounts of time not blinking and the remnants of an orange rind on his napkin.

The rest of the day passed by at a rather slow pace. Nothing exciting happened, no surgeries; although two patients had arrived with broken limbs. Mr. Singer breathed through an oxygen mask. Castiel went through paper work in his office. A nurse came in and asked for his signature. The pen was red; the pen was so red. How had he never noticed how obnoxiously red this pen was? He decided he rather disliked the pen. 

He finally went home to his apartment. He checked his mailbox; nothing but bills and one reminder from his dentist. He had beer and a grilled cheese for dinner. His least favorite television show blared in the background. Castiel sat and skimmed over the morning newspaper; a house had been thoroughly robbed last night, and though still at large, the police had a known suspect. At least it’s something. Sam called him right before bed, asked him about work at the hospital. He shrugged and talked for half an hour. Afterwards he left to go to bed; he showered for five minutes and brushed his teeth for two. He changed into pajama bottoms and a white t-shirt. 

Before he went to bed, Castiel glanced at the photo of his lover, the soldier, as it was facing him where he slept; the one where the soldier’s arms are tightly wrapped around Castiel’s smaller frame. It was a rare occasion that they were smiling together. He felt is brow twinge in worry. He looked at the picture. He worried for the man in the picture. 

Castiel decided to sleep on his side. He skipped the sheet and just slept under the comforter; the night was uncomfortable. Castiel waited for four minutes; then found himself asleep.

_Red, red; such an annoying red._  
\- -

Castiel pushed Mr. Singer’s bed down the hallway this morning, checking his patient’s heartbeat whilst yelling for a defibrillator. Mr. Singer had slipped into a coma and was unable to complain about a pain near his kidneys. But the x-rays still showed nothing, there was still no liquid, no blood, no obstructions. But Mr. Singer isn’t fine. He hasn’t been fine since the surgery three weeks and two days ago. Worse even. And now he was in a coma because of a pain near his kidneys. Castiel thought it was due to the surgery, just the scar forming. But he isn’t going to be fine. Why isn’t he fine? He isn’t going to be fine.

The surgery had just finished. Castiel decided to put Mr. Singer on life support. Cas didn’t bother to scribble his pen into working. He did not push his pen harder than he meant to; he knew how the red ink would bleed into the center of his paper. Red, so red; how had he never noticed how terrifyingly red this pen was? So red it was horrific; it seemed even worse than before. Mr. Singer stayed unconscious on life support. Castiel told Mr. Singer’s family that he was going to be fine. But he wasn’t and would never be fine. There is something wrong with him. Though the x-rays had still shown nothing. Why isn’t he fine then? He isn’t fine. Castiel excused himself. He rubbed a hand through his stubble in an attempt to forget the crying faces. 

The walk down the hallway was short enough. The hallway in general was short enough. Life was short enough. He saw the two nurses that had been behind him two days before. They were still talking to one another; but eyed him concernedly as he walked by. He wondered why they were looking at him, and not knowing left him frightened. A woman with dark curly hair approached him slowly, a man in a military uniform at her shoulder. Her name was River- or Stream, something to do with the water; didn’t he always tell himself that? The man gently nodded at Cas, handing him a pair of dog tags and a triangle-folded American flag. Cas’s soldier’s name shined on the dog tags. The woman told him she was sorry, then smiled sadly without lifting the corners of her mouth. Castiel tried to offer a closed smile back; although it never did reach his lips. The woman and soldier turned and walked away. She had a red bow in her hair, red like that disgusting pen. Red like freshly spilled blood. 

At lunch, no one approached Castiel. They all watched from afar, whispering to each other. Castiel’s glasses dug into his brow constantly as he concentrated on the dog tags and the previous conversation. When lunch was over, Castiel had his eyes screwed up in confusion and a barely touched water bottle on the table.

The rest of the day passed by at a rather fast pace. Everything happened, three surgeries; five injuries. Mr. Singer stayed unconscious on life support. Castiel stared at the dog tags and flag in his office. A soldier came in and asked for his signature. The pen was red; the pen was so red. How had he never noticed how grotesquely red this pen was? He decided he was disgusted by the pen. 

He finally went home to his apartment. He checked his mailbox; nothing but a formal letter of condolences from the military. He had gum and water for dinner. The news reporting two soldiers that had been captured and tortured to death blared in the background. Castiel sat barely reading the morning newspaper; a family had been brutally murdered in their home last night and the police had no leads or suspects. How terrible. Sam and Castiel’s father called him right before bed, separately, crying and talking about his soldier. He stayed still and listened for twenty minutes, before abruptly saying goodnight and hanging up. Afterwards he left to go to bed; he showered for ten minutes and brushed his teeth for one. He possessed only the energy to strip down into his boxers. 

Before he went to bed, Castiel did not look at the photo of his lover, the soldier, as it was facing him where he slept; the one where the soldier’s arms are tightly wrapped around Castiel’s smaller frame. It was a rare occasion that they were smiling together. He felt his eyes prick sharply. He never looked at the picture. He did not think of the man in the picture. 

Castiel decided to sleep on his back. He slept under just the sheet and kicked off the comforter; the night was warm enough. Castiel waited for four hours; then found himself asleep.

_Red, red; such a disgusting red._  


\- -

Castiel stood at the foot Mr. Singer’s empty bed this morning, staring at the clean sheets and quiet machines. Mr. Singer had not been able to recover from the coma and died in the early hours of the morning, never again to feel a pain near his kidneys. The x-rays had showed nothing, there was no liquid, no blood, no obstructions. Mr. Singer's kidney pain _had_ just from the healing surgery. He should have been fine since the surgery three weeks and three days ago. Fixed even. But his heart decided that it was time to stop pumping. Castiel believed it was due to the prescription pills and morphine cocktail Mr. Singer was taking; his old heart could not handle the stimulation. Of course he shouldn’t have been fine. He had never been fine. He was never going to be fine.

And now the bed had been cleaned out. Castiel turned to sign the death report. Cas didn’t want to scribble his pen into working. He did not want to push his pen harder than he meant to; he didn’t want the red ink to bleed into the center of his paper. Red, so red; how had he never noticed how repulsively red this pen was? So red it was life like; it seemed as if he was writing in the dead patient’s blood. Mr. Singer was dead. Castiel told Mr. Singer’s family that he was dead. He had never truly been fine. There had been something wrong with him all along. It was true the x-rays had never shown anything. But it wasn’t his kidneys; it was his heart. The family blames him. Castiel leaves. He rubbed a hand through his unshaven face as he tried to register the blame. It probably was his fault. 

The walk down the hallway was too short. The hallway in general was too short. Life was too short. He saw the two nurses that had been behind him three days before. They were still talking to one another; eyes shining with tears as he walked by. He wondered why they were crying for him, and not knowing left him confused. A woman with dark curly hair approached him slowly. He could not remember her name; did that even matter? She gently touched his shoulder, the woman told him she was sorry, again, then a tear slid down her face. Castiel stared at her, not fully comprehending the reason for her condolences. The woman turned and walked away. She had a black bow in her hair, black like the high noon of night. Black like death. 

At lunch, Castiel began to understand. The dog tags and flag had been returned to him. This meant his soldier must be dead. Castiel tore his glasses from his face as his eyes burned with horrible sadness. When lunch break was over, Castiel left in a hurry; tears streaming down his face and clenched fists at his side. 

The rest of the day passed by at an extremely fast pace. Castiel missed everything that happened. Mr. Singer was dead. Castiel’s soldier was dead. An insurance employee came in and asked for his signature. The pen was red; the pen was so red. How had he never noticed how mockingly red this pen was? He hated the pen. He threw it away. 

He finally went home to his apartment. He didn’t bother checking his mailbox. He sat staring at the floor with tear-narrowed eyes for dinner. Static from the television blared in the background. Castiel didn’t bother reading the morning newspaper; he knew there was an obituary spot saved just for his soldier. How wonderfully, terribly tragic. Sam called him right before bed; he never made a move to pick up the phone. Afterwards he left to go to bed; he showered for thirty minutes and brushed his teeth for one. He could not even find the strength to change from his towel. 

Before he collapsed unto his bed, Castiel faced the photo of his lover, the soldier, down so he could not see it; the one where the soldier’s arms are tightly wrapped around Castiel’s smaller frame. It was a rare occasion that they were smiling together. And now it would never be photographed again. He felt hot tears roll down his face. He decided he hated the picture. He gave his heart to the man in the picture. 

Castiel decided to stare at the ceiling. He lied on top of the sheet and comforter; the night was too hot. Castiel waited for four days; then he put a bullet in his head.

_Red, red; such a tragic red._


End file.
